The History of the Hen Fever. A Humorous Record

And, finally, "Fanny" hatched a brace of chickens; and didn't she crow for and over them? She now cackled and scratched, and crowed harder and louder and shriller than ever. The people stopped in the street to listen to her; old men heard her; young men sought after her; all the women began to "swear" by her; the children thronged to see her; the newspapers all talked about her; and thousands of books were printed about my charming, astonishing, remarkable, crowing "Fanny Fern."

I sent her to the fowl-shows, where she "took 'em all down" clean, and invariably carried away the first premium in her class. Never was such a hen seen, before or since. I was offered a hundred, two hundred, five hundred dollars for her. I was poor; but didn't I own this hen "Fanny," – the extraordinary, wonderful, magnificent, coal-black, blustering, but inapproachable and world-defying "Fanny"?

"I will give you eight hundred dollars for her," said a publisher to me, one day. "I want to put her in a book. She's a wonder! a star of the first magnitude! a diamond without blemish! a God-send to the world in 1854!"

At this moment "Fanny" crowed.

"Will you take eight hundred?" screamed the publisher, jumping nearly to the ceiling.

"No, sir."

"A thousand?"

"No."

"Two thousand?"

"No, sir."

"Five thousand?"

"No! I will keep her."

And I did. What was five thousand dollars to me? Bah! I had the hen-cock "Fanny Fern." I didn't want money. My pocket-book was full to bursting, and so was my head with the excitement of the hen fever. And "Fanny" crowed again. Ah! what a crow was Fanny's!

"Fanny" couldn't be bought, and so my competitors clanned together to destroy her. The old fogies didn't like this breed, and they resolved to annihilate all chance of its perpetuation. I placed her in better quarters, where she would be more secure from intrusion or surprise. I told her of my fears, – and didn't she crow? She flapped her bright black wings, and crowed all over. "Cock-a-doodle-doo – oo – oo!" shouted "Fanny," while her sharp eyes twinkled, her fair throat trembled, and the exhilarating tone of defiance seemed to reach to the very tips of her shining toe-nails. "Cock-a-too —roo – oo!" she shrieked; "let 'em come, too! See what they'll do – oo! I'll take care of you – oo! Don't get in a stoo – oo! Pooh – pooh – poo —poo!"

Maybe "Fanny" didn't crow! And I learned to crow. It was beautiful! She crowed, and I crowed. We crowed together. She in her way, – I in mine. The duet was mellifluous, cheering, soul-stirring, life-invigorating, profitable.

"Fanny" went into New York State, crowing when she left, crowing as she went, and continuing to crow until she crowed the community there clear through the next fourth o' July, out into the fabled millennium. She crowed Messrs. Derby & Miller into a handsome fortune, and Mason & Brothers into ditto. She crowed one Hyacinth into the shreds of a cocked hat and battered knee-buckles. She crowed the Hall breed of old hens so far out of sight that the "search for Sir John Franklin" would be a fool to the journey requisite to overtake that family. And still she crowed.

The more they bade her stop, the more she wouldn't. "Cock-a-tootle —too!" "I-know-what-I-shall —doo!" "What-do-I-care-for —yoo?" "This-world-is-all – foo —foo." "Leave-me-and-I'll-leave —you." "If-not-I'll-lamm —you– too – oo!"

And "Fanny" crowed herself at last into the good graces of two long brothers in Gotham, where she is now crowing with all her might and main. Let her crow!

She was a remarkable "bird," that rollicking, joyous, inexplicable, flirting, funny, furious "Fanny Fern." I hear her now again!

"Cock-a-doodle – doo – oo!" "Young 'Un, – you-will-do!!" "Et – tu – Brute – o-o-o!!!"

CHAPTER XXIII.

CONVALESCENCE

One striking feature that exhibited itself in the midst of this mania, was the fact that prominent among the leading dealers in fancy poultry, constantly appeared the names of clergymen, doctors, and other "liberally-educated" gentlemen.

In Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, and most of the Eastern States, this circumstance was especially noticeable; and more particularly in England. Whether this class of the community had the most money to throw away, or whether their leisure afforded them the better opportunity to indulge in this fancy, I cannot say; but one thing is certain, – among my own patrons and correspondents, for the past five or six years, I find the names of this class of "the people" by far the most conspicuous and frequent.

There came into my office, one morning late in 1853, a Boston physician (whom I had never seen before), who introduced himself civilly, and invited me to ride a short distance with him up town. I was busy; but he insisted, and his manner was peculiarly urgent and determined.

"My carriage is at the door," he said; "and I will bring you back here in twenty minutes. I have some pure-blood stock I desire to dispose of."

"What is it, doctor?" I asked.

"Chickens, chickens!" replied the doctor, briefly.

I assured the gentleman that I had near a thousand fowls on hand at this time, and had no possible wish to increase the number.

"They are pure-bred – cost me high," he continued; "are very fine, but I must part with them – come!"

I joined him, and we rode a mile or more, when he halted before a fine, large house; his servant in waiting took his horse, and he ushered me into his well-appointed poultry-house, at the rear of his dwelling.

The buildings were glazed in front and upon the roofs; the yards were spacious and cleanly, and appropriately divided; the laying and hatching rooms were roomy and convenient; the roosting-house was airy and pleasant, and everything was, seemingly, in excellent order, and arranged with good taste throughout.

"That cock cost me twenty dollars," said the doctor, calmly. "Those two hens I paid eighteen dollars for. That bird, yonder, twelve dollars. These five pullets stand me in about forty-five dollars. I have never yet been able to hatch but one brood of chickens. The rats carried them off by the third morning after they came into this world. The hens sometimes lay, I believe; at least, my man says so. I have never seen any eggs from them myself, however. I have no doubt this species of fowls (these Changays) do lay eggs, though. There are twenty-two of them. Buy them, Mr. B – ," continued the doctor, urgently.

I said no; I really did not want them.

"I had nigh forty of them," continued the doctor, "two months ago. But they have disappeared. Disease, roup, vermin, night-thieves, sir. Will you buy them? John – drive them out!"

The fowls were driven into the main yard. There were but sixteen in all.

"Where are the rest, John?" inquired the doctor, anxiously. "There were twenty-two here yesterday."

"I dunno, sir," said John.

"Drive 'em back, and box them up, John. Mr. B – , will you make an offer for the remainder? To-morrow I shall probably have none to sell! Will you give anything for them?"

I declined to buy.

"Will you permit me to send them to you as a present, sir?" he continued.

I did not want them, any way. I had a full supply.

"What will you charge me, Mr. B – , to allow them to be sent to you?" continued the fancier, desperately, and resolutely, at last.

I saw he was determined, and I took his fowls (fifteen of them), and gave him ten dollars.

He smiled.

"I have had the hen fever," he added, "badly– but I am better of it. I am convalescent, now," said the doctor. "You see what I have here for houses; cost me over seven hundred dollars; my birds over four hundred more; grain and care for a year, a hundred more. I am satisfied! Your money, here, is the first dollar I ever received in return for my investment. You see what I have left out of my venture of twelve or thirteen hundred dollars; the manure, and – and – the lice!"

Such were the exact facts! His stock was selected from the Marsh and Forbes importations, and the birds were good; but, by the time he got ready to believe that it wasn't all gold that glittered, the sale of this variety of fowl had passed by. A chance purchaser happened to come along soon after, however, who "hadn't read the papers" so attentively as some of us had, and who wanted these very fowls. I sold them to him, "cheap as a broom," because the fever for this kind of bird was rapidly declining. He paid me only $150 for this lot; which was a bargain, of a truth. The buyer was satisfied, however, and so was I.

These were but isolated instances. Scores and hundreds of gentlemen and amateur fanciers found themselves in a similar predicament, at the end of one or two or three years. Without possessing a single particle of knowledge requisite to the successful accomplishment of their purpose, – utterly ignorant of the first rudiments of the business, – they jumped into it, without reason, forgetting the wholesome advice contained in the musty adage, "look before you leap." And, after sinking tens and hundreds or (in some cases) thousands of dollars in experiments, they woke up to find that they had had the fever badly, but, fortunately, were at last convalescent!

I was busy, all this time, in supplying my friends with "pure-bred" stock, however, and had very little leisure to tarry to sympathize with these "poor creeturs." The demand for my stock continued, and the best year's business I ever enjoyed, was from the spring of 1853 to May and June, 1854; when it commenced to fall off very sensibly, and the prospect became dubious, for future operations, even with me.

CHAPTER XXIV.

AN EXPENSIVE BUSINESS

During the past six years I have expended, outright, for breeding stock, and for appropriate buildings for my fowls, over four thousand dollars, in round numbers – without taking into the account the expenses of their care, and the cost of feeding.

Few breeders have spent anything like this sum, for this purpose, strictly. In the mean time, the aggregate of my receipts has reached (up to January, 1855) upwards of seventy thousand dollars. I have raised thousands upon thousands of the Chinese varieties of fowls, and my purchases to fill orders which came to hand during this term – in addition to what I was able to fill from those I myself raised – have been very large. And, while I have been thus engaged, hundreds and hundreds of amateurs and fanciers have sprung up in various directions, all of whom have had their share, too, in this trade.

To the fanciers – those who purchased, as many did at first, simply for their amusement, or for the mere satisfaction of having good, or, perhaps, the best birds – this fever proved an expensive matter. I have known amateurs who willingly paid twenty, fifty, or a hundred dollars, and even more, for a pair, or a trio, of what were considered very choice Shanghaes. These fowls, after the first few weeks or months of the purchaser's excitement had passed by, could be bought of him for five or ten dollars a pair! Yet, his next-door neighbor, who would not now take these identical birds for a gift, scarcely, would pay to a stranger a similarly extravagant amount to that which had a hundred times been paid by others before him, for something, perhaps, inferior in quality, but which chanced to be called by the most popular name current at the moment.

Thus, for a time, bubble number one, the Cochin-Chinas, prevailed. The eggs of these fowls sold at a dollar each, for a long period. Then came the Shanghaes, of different colors, – as the yellow, the white, the buff, or the black, – and took their turn. Many thousands of these were disposed of, at round rates. The smooth-legged birds at first commanded the best price; then the feathered-legged. And, finally, came the Grey Shanghaes, or "Chittagongs," or "Brahmas," as they were differently termed; and this proved bubble number two, in earnest.

Everybody wanted them, and everybody had to pay for them, too! They were large, heavy fowls, of China blood, plainly, but, with some few exceptions, were indifferent birds. They were leggy, however, and stood up showy and tall, and, to look at, appeared advantageously to the fancy, at this period. In the maw of this bubble, thousands of good dollars were thrown; and no race of poultry ever had the run that did these Greys, under various names, both in this country and in England.

A most excellent Southern trade had sprung up, and large shipments of fowls went forward to the West, from Massachusetts, and to Charleston, Augusta, Mobile, New Orleans, etc., where the fever broke out furiously, and continued, without abatement, for three years or more.

No buyers were so liberal, generally, and no men in the world, known to Northern breeders, bought so extensively, as did these fanciers in New Orleans and vicinity. They purchased largely, from the very start; and the trade was kept up with a singular vigor and enterprise, from the beginning to the end. Orders, varying in value from $500 to $1200 and $1500, were of almost weekly occurrence from that region; and in one instance, I sent forward to a gentleman in Louisiana, a single shipment for which he paid me $2230! This occurred in September, 1853.

In this same year, I sent, from January to December, to another gentleman (at New Orleans), over ten thousand dollars' worth of stock.

The prices for chickens ranged from $12 or $15 a pair, to $25 or $30, and often $40 to $50, a pair. These rates were always willingly and freely paid, and the stock was, after a while, disseminated throughout the entire valley of the Mississippi; where the China fowls always did better than in our own climate.

It proved an expensive business to some of these gentlemen, most emphatically. But they always paid cheerfully, promptly, and liberally; and knew the Yankees they were dealing with, a good deal better than many of the sharpers supposed they did. For myself, I shall not permit this opportunity to pass without expressing my thanks to my numerous and generous Southern patrons, to whom I sent a great many hundred pairs of what were deemed "good birds," and to whom I am indebted, largely, for the trade I enjoyed for upwards of five years. I sincerely hope they made more money out of all this than I did; and I trust that their substance, as well as "their shadows, may never be less."

During this year, and far into 1854, the current of trade turned towards Great Britain; and John Bull was not very slow to appreciate the rare qualities of my "magnificent" and "extraordinary" birds; "the like of which," said a London journal, when the Queen's fowls first arrived, "was never before seen in England."

For upwards of a year, I had all this trade in my own way. Subsequently, some of the smaller dealers sent out a few pairs to London, but "the people" there could never be brought to believe those fowls were anything but mongrels; and, while these interlopers contrived to murder the trade there, they at the same time "cut off their own noses," for the future, with those who knew what poultry was, upon the other side of the Atlantic.

I had my shy at the Britons, seasonably!

But, a few months afterwards (as I shall show in a future chapter), through the mismanagement of an ambitious dealer in other fancy live-stock, the trade with England, from this side of the water, was completely ruined. Over two hundred American fowls were thrown suddenly upon the London market, and were finally sold there, at auction, for a very small sum; and we were subsequently unable (with all our chicken-eloquence) to make John Bull believe that even the Grey Shanghaes were any longer "scarce" with us, here!

CHAPTER XXV.

THE GREAT PAGODA HEN

The most ridiculous and fulsome advertisements now occupied the columns of certain so-called agricultural papers in this country, particularly one or two of these sheets in New York State.

Stories were related by correspondents (and endorsed by the nominal editors), regarding the proportions and weights and beauties of certain of the "Bother'em" class of fowls, that rivalled Munchausen, out and out. Fourteen and fifteen pound cocks, and ten or eleven pound hens, were as common as the liars who told the stories of these impossibilities. And one day the following capital hit, by Durivage, appeared in a Boston journal. He called it "The Great Pagoda Hen." There is as much truth in this as there was in many of the more seriously-intended articles of that time. It ran as follows:

"Mr. Sap Green retired from business, and took possession of his country 'villa,' just about the time the 'hen fever' was at its height; and he soon gave evidence of having that malignant disorder in its most aggravated form. He tolerated no birds in his yard that weighed less than ten pounds at six months, and he allowed no eggs upon his table that were not of a dark mahogany color, and of the flavor of pine shavings. He supplied his own table with poultry, and the said poultry consisted of elongated drum-sticks, attached by gutta-percha muscles and catgut sinews to ponderous breast-bones. He frequently purchased a 'crower' for a figure that could have bought a good Morgan horse; but then, as the said crower consumed as much grain as a Morgan horse, he could not help being perfectly satisfied with the bargain. His wife complained that he was 'making ducks and drakes' of his property; but, as that involved a high compliment to his ornithological tastes, he attempted no retort. He satisfied himself that it 'would pay in the end.' His calculations of profits were 'clear as mud.' He would have a thousand hens. The improved breeds were warranted to lay five eggs apiece a week; and eggs were worth – that is, he was paying– six dollars a dozen. His thousand hens would lay twenty thousand eight hundred and thirty-three dozen eggs per annum, which, at six dollars per dozen, would amount to the sum of one hundred and twenty-four thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight dollars. Even deducting therefrom the original cost of the hens and their keep, – say thirty-six thousand dollars, – the very pretty trifle of eighty-eight thousand nine hundred and ninety-eight was the remainder – clear profit. Eggs – even dark mahogany eggs —went down to a shilling a dozen! But we will not anticipate.

"To facilitate the multiplication of the feathered species; Mr. Green imported a French Eccaleobion, or egg-hatching machine, that worked by steam, and was warranted to throw off a thousand chicks a month.

"One day an 'ancient mariner' arrived at the villa, with a small basket on his arm, and inquired for the master of the house. Sap was just then engaged in important business, – teaching a young chicken to crow, – but he left his occupation, and received the stranger.

"'Want to buy an egg?' asked the mariner.

"'One egg? Why, where did it come from?' asked the hen-fancier.

"'E Stingies,' replied the mariner.

"'Domestic fowl's egg?'

"'Domestic.'

"'Let's see it.'

"The sailor produced an enormous egg, weighing about a pound. Sap 'hefted' it carefully.

"'Did you ever see the birds that lay such eggs?' he asked.

"'Lots on 'em,' replied the sailor. 'They're big as all out-doors. They calls 'em the Gigantic Pagoda Hen. I'm afeared to tell you how big they are; you won't believe me. But jest you hatch out that 'ere, and you'll see wot'll come of it.'

"'But they must eat a great deal?' said Sap.

"'Scarcely anything,' replied the mariner; 'that's the beauty on 'em. Don't eat as much as Bantams.'

"'Are they good layers?'

"'You can't help 'em laying,' replied the seaman, enthusiastically. 'They lay one egg every week-day, and two Sundays.'

"'But when do they set?' queried Green.

"'They don't set at all. They lays their eggs in damp, hot places, and natur' does the rest. The chicks take keer of themselves as soon as they're out of the shell.'

"'Damp, hot place!' said Sap. 'My Eccaleobion is the very thing, and my artificial sheep-skin mother will bring 'em up to a charm. My friend, what will you take for your egg?'

"'Cap'n,' said the mariner, solemnly, 'if I was going to stay ashore, I wouldn't take a hundred dollars for it; but, as I've shipped ag'in, and sail directly, you shall have it for forty.'

"The forty dollars were instantly paid, and the hen-fancier retired with his prize, his conscience smiting him for having robbed a poor, hard-working sailor.

"O, how he watched the egg-hatching machine while that extraordinary egg was undergoing the steaming process! He begrudged the time exacted by eating and sleeping; but his vigils were rewarded by the appearance, in due time, of a stout young chick, with the long legs that are a proof of Eastern blood. The bird grew apace; indeed, almost as rapidly as Jack's bean-stalk, or the prophet's gourd. But the sailor was mistaken in one thing; it ate voraciously. Moreover, as it increased in size and strength, the Pagoda exhibited extraordinary pugnacity. It kicked a dozen comrades to death in one night. It even bit the hand of the feeder. Soon it was necessary to confine it in a separate apartment. Its head soon touched the ceiling. What a pity it had no mate! Sap wrote to a correspondent at Calcutta to ship him two pairs of the Great Pagoda birds, without regard to cost. Meanwhile he watched the enormous growth of his single specimen. He kept its existence a profound secret. It was under lock and key, in a separate apartment, lighted by a large window in the roof. Sap's man-of-all-work wheeled daily two bushels of corn and a barrel of water to the door of the apartment, and Green fed them out when no one was looking. Even this supply was scanty; but, out of justice to his family, Sap was compelled to put the monster bird on allowance.

"'Poor thing!' he would say, when he saw the creature devouring broken glass, and even bolting stray nails and gravel-stones, 'it cuts me to the soul to see it reduced to such extremity. But it's eating me out of house and home. Decidedly, that sailor-man must have been deceived about their being moderate feeders.'

"When the bird had attained to the enormous altitude of six feet, the proud proprietor sent for the celebrated Dr. Ludwig Hydrarchos, of Cambridge, to inspect him, and furnish him with a scientific description, wherewith he might astonish his brethren of the Poultry Association. The doctor came, and was carefully admitted by Green to the presence of the Great Pagoda Hen. The bird was not accustomed to the sight of strangers, and began to manifest uneasiness and displeasure at seeing the man of science. It lifted first one foot and then the other, as if it were treading on hot plates.

"'Hi! hi!' said Green, soothingly. 'Pagy! Pagy! come, now, be quiet! – will you?'

"'Let me out!' cried Hydrarchos, in great alarm. The huge bird was polking up to him. 'Let me out, I say!'

"'I never knew it to act so before,' said Green, fumbling at the lock.

"A whirr, a rush, a whizzing of the wings, and the bird was down on the doctor, treading on his heels, and pecking at the nape of his neck.

"'Pagy! Pagy!' supplicated the owner.

"But the angry bird would not listen to reason, and Sap received a thump on the head for his pains. And now both rushed for the opening door, stumbling and falling prostrate in their eagerness to escape. The monster bird danced a moment on their prostrate bodies, and then darted forth from its late prison-house.

"It rushed through a couple of grape-houses, carrying destruction in its progress. It scoured through the flower-beds, ruining the bright parterres. Mrs. Green, who was walking in the garden with her child, saw the horrid apparition, and stood paralyzed with terror. In an instant she was thrown down and trampled under foot, shrieking and clasping her infant in her arms.

"Mr. Green beheld this last atrocity, and his conjugal affection overcame his love of birds. He caught up his fowling-piece and fired at the ungrateful monster; the shot ripped up some of its tail-feathers, but failed to inflict a mortal wound, – nothing short of a field-piece could produce an impression on that living mass. Away sped the fowl to the railroad-track, down which it rushed with headlong speed. But its career was brief; an express train, coming up in an opposite direction, struck it full in front, and rushed on, scattering feathers, wings and drum-sticks, wildly in the air.